Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 Read online

  The three armored commandos moved out in a triangle formation, opposing the three main bodies of guards. At the same instant, the commandos also fanned out, moving with surprising speed since it seemed as if they were so relaxed and tired mere moments ago. The electronic energy bolts fired, striking the armed guards, and almost before the stunned guards hit the steel helicopter hangar deck, the Night Stalker commandos had their weapons in their hands. In less than fifteen seconds, every armed Egyptian sailor in the hangar was unconscious, and the commandos were closing, dogging, and guarding the steel hangar doors and hatches, weapons in hand.

  “What are you doing? What are you doing here?” Farouk shouted as he saw his men drop to the nonskid deck, their bodies quivering from the electric shocks they received. He pointed an angry finger at Luger. “You told me you meant us no danger!” He saw Patrick approach and turned his anger towards him. “Are you the one responsible? I will see to it that you are put to death for this act of aggression! We saved you and your men from the Libyans, and now you dare do this?”

  “Captain, I am Castor,” Patrick said. He paused as he listened to instructions Wohl issued to his men. The Night Stalker commandos quickly began to remove the Egyptian sailors’ uniforms and put them on. “My men and I won’t hurt you, and we have no desire to take your ship, unless you do not cooperate with us.”

  “Won’t hurt us? Won’t take my ship? You are terrorists! Saboteurs! Spies!” Farouk screamed. “Putting on the uniform of another country’s army is not permitted!”

  “This is not war, Captain, and we are not soldiers,” Patrick said. “Sir, I’m going to ask one more time for your cooperation.”

  “I refuse. You may kill me if you wish.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Captain,” Patrick said. “I want you to contact your headquarters on Mersa Matruh. Tell them I have taken you hostage and warn them not to approach this ship.”

  “I told you, I will not cooperate,” Farouk said. “I order you to put down those weapons and surrender.”

  “That’s not likely to happen, Captain,” Patrick said. “But I’m sure you’ll reconsider my offer to contact your headquarters once we reach the bridge.”

  “The bridge?” Farouk gulped. “You ... you think you will take my bridge? You will all be dead in ten minutes.”

  “Maybe so,” Patrick said. “But in five minutes, we’ll have control of your bridge.” He switched the view on his electronic visor to an electronic briefing Chris Wohl was giving to the Night Stalkers. Patrick saw that Wohl had called up an electronic blueprint of the U.S.-made Perry-class frigate and was briefing his men on their assault. In less than five minutes, they were ready. Wohl took the port-side rail, Briggs the starboard rail, followed by fifteen Night Stalkers each; Patrick went atop the hangar and made his way forward along the upper gun deck with twenty commandos.

  Because of the tense situation in the Med following the Libyan raids, the deck was full of lookouts, all armed with American-made machine guns. They were all doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing—searching the sea, continually scanning for threats using night-vision goggles and infrared sniperscopes—so it was easy to simply step within a few feet of them unnoticed, quietly knock them unconscious with a quick zap, disable or capture their weapons, and move on. McLanahan’s, Briggs’s, and Wohl’s electronic visors showed each crewman on deck in stark relief several yards away, and their amplified hearing equipment allowed them to take cover before a crew member came through a hatch or unexpectedly appeared around a comer.

  On the bridge, the officer of the deck, or OOD, was making a log entry when suddenly the frigate’s propeller simply stopped. “Sir, sudden loss of propulsion!” the helmsman reported.

  The OOD immediately picked up the 1MC phone direct to Engineering. “Engineering, bridge, what’s happening down there?” No reply. “Engineering, bridge, respond!” Still no reply. The OOD turned to the chief petty officer. “Sound general quarters, all hands to battle stations, no drill.” He picked up another phone, the one direct to the captain’s quarters. “Captain to the bridge. Emergency.” The OOD had picked up another phone. “Combat, bridge . . . Combat, can you hear me?” There was no reply. “What in hell is going on here?” He turned to the chief petty officer and shouted, “And why haven’t you sounded general quarters, dammit?”

  “I activated the alarm, but it did not sound, sir!” The chief petty officer turned to one of the watchstanders and shouted, “Start a running message relay right now, general quarters, battle stations, this is not a drill. Go!”

  “Ma’lesh,” they heard behind them. “It doesn’t matter.” The OOD and chief petty officer turned and saw Commander Farouk step onto the bridge. “Sir, we’ve lost propulsion,” the OOD reported, “and I cannot raise Engineering or Combat and I cannot sound general quarters. I.. .” But then he noticed the surprised expressions of the helmsman and the other watchstanders as the captain stepped onto the bridge. “Sir .. . ?”

  Farouk was roughly pushed toward his captain’s chair in the center of the bridge, and then the place seemed to explode in chaos. Men in Egyptian naval uniforms pointed automatic weapons at the bridge crew, shouting in English. At the same moment, the access door from the center of the bridge burst open, and more English-speaking men rushed in; behind the OOD and chief, the port-side weather door also whipped open, and more strange men entered. Once the bridge crew was gathered up, they were placed down on the deck, hands behind their necks. Four of the commandos stayed on the bridge, while others took up security positions outside and in the inside passageway.

  Patrick entered commands into the frigate’s computerized helm station, and the ship turned away from the Egyptian coast, increasing power to maximum. He then picked up the captain’s telephone and held it out to Farouk. “I need you to tell your crew that we will be delayed in returning to Mersa Matruh and to not interfere with my men.”

  “I refuse.”

  Patrick seemingly did not react—but moments later, Farouk’s body began to do a strange jerking quiver in his seat, and his eyes began to roll up into his head. The spasm lasted for several moments, then Farouk’s body went limp. The Egyptian captain appeared as if he had just been beaten up, his breath coming in deep gasps, although no one had touched him. “It will be harder on you if you do not comply,” Patrick said in an electronically synthesized voice.

  Farouk held out his hand, and Patrick placed the telephone in it. The Egyptian took several deep breaths, then spoke in Arabic. After he had finished, Patrick turned to one of the Night Stalkers and asked, “What did he say?”

  “He said the bridge and probably Engineering and Combat have been taken by American commandos. He ordered his crew to resist us to the maximum extent possible.”

  “The only ones that will be hurt will be your men, Captain,” Patrick said. He spoke into his helmet communications system, then handed the phone back to Farouk a few moments later. “We have made contact with your headquarters, Captain. Tell them anyone approaching this ship will be attacked and killed. This is your only warning.” Farouk relayed the message, recommending that all forces be dispatched immediately to disable his ship and prevent it from falling into terrorist hands.

  “Well, now the Egyptians know we’re here,” Briggs radioed to Patrick via their battle armor comm system. “Half the crew is ready to rush us from every corner of the ship, and soon half the Egyptian military will be barreling down on us. What’s the plan?”

  “We need to get in contact with Martindale, have him get every asset we have available searching for Wendy,” Patrick said. “I want to turn this ship inside out looking for weapons, I want everyone to get fully recharged and rearmed, and then I want a plan of action to go in and rescue her.”

  “Patrick,” Briggs said softly, “we still don’t know if she’s alive.”

  “She’s alive. I know it.”

  “But we don’t—”

  “I said, she’s alive, dammit!” Patrick cried angrily. �
�I’m going to find her even if I have to move every grain of sand in the desert to do it.”

  OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA

  THAT SAME TIME

  “You cannot go back, Sekhmet,” said retired Egyptian army general Ahmad Baris, President Kamal Ishmail Salaam’s national security adviser and longtime trusted friend of the family. Fifty-three-year-old General Baris lost most of his right leg in the 1973 Arab-Israeli War, burned off in a tank explosion, but he stayed in government to serve his country as best he could, rising through the ranks from onion-peeler and tailor to intelligence coordinator to tactician to presidential military adviser. “It is too dangerous. Al-Khan’s henchmen and the Muslim Brotherhood assassins are everywhere.”

  “Not even to bury my husband?” Susan Bailey Salaam said in a low voice. Her head and arms were swathed in bandages, and an Egyptian army doctor had inserted an intravenous tube into a vein in her leg because the second- degree bums on her arms would not allow it.

  “Especially not for a funeral,” Baris said sadly. “Trust me. You would not be safe. There will be a simple ceremony for your husband, no more. It is too dangerous otherwise.”

  Susan Salaam and General Baris were on board an Egyptian army helicopter, zooming low over the Mediterranean Sea westward, about five miles off the coast. Ahmad Baris had engineered an alternate escape plan for Susan to get out of the city after the attack so secret that not even the Presidential Guards knew about it. After the men and women killed or injured in the attack were taken away by ambulance from the mosque, Baris had Susan taken in several different ambulances to a waiting army helicopter and whisked out of the city.

  “I feel like a coward. I feel as if I have abandoned my husband,” Susan said stonily.

  The retired general sighed softly, then repositioned his right leg to ease the pain a bit, which easily got Susan’s attention. “Your husband is dead, Sekhmet,” he said softly, like a father speaking to his young daughter. “Being killed at his grave site by more Muslim Brotherhood assassins would not help him or Egypt.” He paused, then added softly, “You know I would follow your husband into hell, and I pledge the same to you. Tell me what you wish, and I will do everything in my poor powers to help you do it.”

  “What do you suggest, General?”

  “We are heading toward Mersa Matruh, our largest military base outside Cairo, about three hundred kilometers west,” Baris replied. “I can have a foreign ministry transport waiting for us there. The plane can take us anywhere in western Europe—Portugal, England, Belgium, Ireland. From there, we can request protection from the American embassy—you are a dual national as well as a credentialed Egyptian ambassador, so that will not be a problem.”

  “I will not leave Egypt,” Susan said sternly. “It is my home now, not America.” She glared at him with her one unbandaged eye. “I’m surprised you would even suggest it, General.”

  “I am sorry, Madame. I was only thinking of your safety. I apologize if I have offended you or dishonored the memory of the president by suggesting you flee the country.”

  “You are still one of the most respected men in all of Egypt, perhaps in the entire Arab world,” Susan said, reaching up and taking Baris’s hand. “Your loyalty is unquestioned, as is your heart.” She looked at Baris, paused as if considering her words, then said, “You could be president, or prime minister, if you so chose. But you stay in the shadows. Your people need you, General. When will you stand up and lead them?”

  “I have led men only once, at the head of a formation of tanks in the Sinai against the Israelis almost thirty years ago, and nine of every ten men that followed my orders died in less than a day,” Baris said. “I was the lucky one— I lost only part of my right leg. I learned that day that I am far more adept at observing and advising than making actual decisions.”

  “Nonsense, Ahmad.”

  “As a famous American psychopathic renegade police officer once said, ‘A man’s gotta Imow his limitations,’ ” Baris said with a smile. His love for American cop movies and westerns—the more violent the better—was well known throughout Cairo. “I am content and secure in the knowledge that I have given good, sound advice to many government officials over the years, and I believe I have served God and made Egypt a better place for it. That is enough for me.” He paused, studying Susan carefully, then asked, “What is it you seek, Sekhmet?”

  Susan Salaam did not respond for several moments, and Baris was surprised to see a faint smile on her lips when she finally replied, “Am I wrong for saying ‘I would like to see Zuwayy and al-Khan dead’?” Baris did not return the smile, so hers dimmed and her exotic eyes narrowed. “The truth, my old friend?” Baris nodded, and she looked away and nodded as well. “I’m happy to be alive. I’m glad I wasn’t killed. And so I think that perhaps God had a reason for not wishing me dead. I feel there is something more I must do.” Susan shook her head, staring off into space as if reading a newspaper headline from a great distance. She paused, then looked at the retired general. He swallowed as he saw something ominous in her dark almond-shaped eye and full yet innocent lips. “Yes. There is work to be done. You and my husband had plans to restore Egypt to its rightful place as leader of the Mediterranean nations and of the Arab world. I want to continue your goals.”

  “My dear, the concept of a united Arab world is a dream, nothing more,” Baris said, chuckling despite the strange prickly sensation he felt on the back of his neck. “Don’t let the apparent successes of pretentious nutcases like Zuwayy or opportunistic zealots like al-Khan cloud your thinking. The people of Libya don’t believe Zuwayy is a descendant of a desert king, and no modem Egyptian will ever believe a man is invested with the power of the gods to rule their land. The Pharaohs are dead, and long may it stay that way.” He touched Susan’s hand, breaking her reverie, and smiled with relief when she smiled at him. “Even though you are a thousand times lovelier than all of Hollywood’s Cleopatras put together, Sekhmet, don’t ever be deluded into thinking the world will tolerate an Arab empire.”

  Susan’s smile dimmed as she reached up and touched her eyepatch, then ran her fingers down the left side of her face and left arm, gently tracing the scars and the pain that outlined them under all the bandages. “No one will ever think I am as beautiful as Cleopatra. Zuwayy’s and al- Khan’s treachery has seen to that.”

  “Don’t let revenge and hatred fester inside you,” Baris warned her. “Keep a clear head. Understand?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Good.” The military helicopter had a computer terminal at the communications officer’s station, so Baris swiveled his chair over to his computer terminal and logged on. His usual list of daily intelligence, status, and situation reports started popping up on the screen. “Our first task is to get you to safety. I.. .”

  “I must go back to the presidential palace,” Susan repeated. “I must bury my husband first.”

  “Your life is in great danger if you go back,” Baris warned her.

  “I have no choice. If the conspirators want to kill me before or during the funeral, so be it—I will become Egypt’s second martyr. My last duty to my husband is to help lead his nation forward beyond their grief.” She smiled at her friend. “But I don’t want you exposing yourself in a vain attempt to stop any attack if it should come. I want you out of sight, watching, as you do best. Leave me your best and most trusted aides. I think I’ll be all right until after the funeral. After that... we will do what we must do. Let’s go to Alexandria. Can you find a secure place for us there?”

  “The Naval Academy on Abu Qir Bay east of Alexandria—the commandant is an old friend, and he can ensure your safety and security. It’s isolated enough to keep us out of sight, but they have helicopter and fast armed patrol vessel facilities in case we must make a quick escape from Khan’s goons. Your apartment is less than a kilometer away.” But as he scanned the daily reports, he came across a shocking one and read it quickly. Susan noticed his eyebrows lifting higher and higher with
each sentence. “What in hell . .. ?”

  “What is it, General?”

  “Some sort of base-wide emergency happening at Mersa Matruh as we speak,” Baris replied, reading the report with growing surprise. “Listen to this, Susan: On the night before the attack at the mosque, there was an attack against an isolated rocket base in Libya, including possible chemical and nuclear material discharge.”

  “I remember. Kamal was briefed shortly after it happened. We mobilized our border forces, but otherwise did not want to make it appear we were in any way involved.”

  “That’s correct,” Baris said. “A few hours later, there were a series of attacks by unidentified warplanes, presumed to be Libyan, against several civilian commercial vessels in the Mediterranean. We were told they were some kind of retaliatory attacks, the Libyans trying to find where the commandos that attacked their base came from. A total of seven lifeboats filled with sixty-three men and women evacuated from one of the ships, a Lithuanian-flagged salvage vessel, and were picked up by our guided missile frigate El Arish out of Mersa Matruh.”

  “That seems like a very large crew for a salvage vessel. What else? Has the crew been interrogated? Who are they?”

  Susan looked at the retired general and saw that his mouth had dropped open in surprise. “General? What is it?”

  “Our frigate was captured.”

  “Captured? By the rescued crew?”

  “This is extraordinary,” Baris exclaimed as he read. “The rescued crew members are apparently commandos, led by three men in unusual and unidentifiable battle dress uniforms, carrying powerful but unusual weapons.”

  “What is the crew complement of the frigate?”

  “About two hundred sailors.”

  “Sixty men captured two hundred sailors on board one of our own warships?” Susan asked incredulously. Surprise, however, quickly turned to wonderment. “How do we know all this, General? Is someone on the crew sending secret messages? Did someone escape?”